Peace and Quiet
by ThiessenClocks
Summary: After the events of Fallout, someone has unfinished business. But it can't be done alone. Rated T for violence. Spoilers for MI-Fallout.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This takes place a few weeks after the events of Mission Impossible Fallout and consequently includes spoilers. In part, this is based on my story Hunt &Gather, so I recommend reading that first. Also violent crimes will be discussed in detail. You have been warned._

 _Special thanks to PandorWho for helping me with the French bits._

 _Thanks as always to Ellster for beta-reading. The character of Elaine belongs to her. All Elaine-scenes have been approved. If you want to know more, check out her stories, they're awesome._

 _Theories about what the hell is going on are welcome at any point. Enjoy._

* * *

 **Peace and Quiet**

 _I can't breathe._

One thought controlling everything. Every single action was directed towards one goal now: oxygen. Benji was dimly aware that he was trembling. He tried to reach up to his neck, where the rope cut off precious air, but he couldn't. Nothing was there, he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe. Everything went dark. He was scared. Genuinely afraid for his life. He would die here. Right now. It was terrifying, it was... dark... he opened his eyes. People. Tables. A café. He could smell red wine and a faint salty fragrance in the air from the Thames behind him. His chest felt heavy. He looked down and saw the countdown, just hitting three, two, one – the rope tightened around his neck, it hurt, and he still couldn't breathe, there was nothing he could do. _This is the end_ , a hoarse voice rung in his ears.

"Benji!"

He sat up and took the deepest breath possible. He felt hot and cold at the same time, vaguely aware that his shirt was drenched in sweat and clinging to his body, but mostly he felt alive.

"Just breathe. You're safe," Skye said soothingly, and Benji wished he could hold on to her voice. "You're home. Look at me." She lightly touched his chin, turned his face towards her, but then he already collapsed into her arms. "It's all right, skat," she whispered, pulling him into her. "You're okay."

Benji breathed deeply, tried to say something, but couldn't.

"You're safe," she said again. Skye was stroking his back. "What was it this time?"

"It was strange..." he said quietly. "It was Kashmir again... but also London."

"London?" she asked in surprise.

He nodded. "I don't know. Lately it keeps coming back. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. I'm here for you."

Benji nodded, but Skye could see he was troubled. "Let's just go back to sleep."

She worried. She could tell he was frustrated, but it wasn't like him to shut her out. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I didn't mean to wake you again."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

La Trinité-sur-mer was a small fishing village that wasn't much more than a port. This time of year the weather was grey and windy, but on occasion the sun peaked through the clouds for a few precious minutes. The woman walking along the pier didn't mind the occasional raindrop on her trenchcoat. One of La Trinité's main qualities was that is was small and out of the way. Thoroughly uneventful. Just the way Ilsa Faust liked it after what had happened in Kashmir. Life felt good among the small community that had first regarded her wearily as a stranger but eventually come to accept her. Being surrounded by people who had no idea about plutonium was utterly calming.

Ilsa rounded the corner, away from the seaside. Someone behind her followed at a distance. The person had been there for a while now. She cursed her paranoia. Everything was fine. She was back at MI6. Not disavowed, certainly not disgraced. Not running anymore. As it was, on a well-earned holiday. Time to calm down – time to think about what had happened with Ethan Hunt.

The agent rounded another corner, already knowing the narrow streets by heart. Again the other person followed. This was no coincidence. Ilsa sped up and stepped into a secluded doorway that couldn't be seen from the road. She waited, fighting the all-too-familiar feeling of angst that was creeping over her skin. She was so sick of it.

Agent Faust heard steps approaching and tensed. Decidedly she stepped out in the open and stood face to face with a woman. She had just begun the "Who are you?" when she already recognised her.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Would you like some leftovers?"

It was Danish strawberry tart with vanilla cream. Growing up in the family bakery, from time to time Skye had outbursts of manufacturing delicious Danish pastries, and on rare occasions even Benji couldn't handle all of it, which resulted in bringing them to the office.

"Sure," Elaine said, succeeding to hide just how much she wanted that tart.

Skye pushed the lunch box across the cafeteria table towards her fellow agent. "Hypothetically," she suddenly began, "if you wanted to kill someone but can't use any obvious weapons, how would you do it?"

"Well, you could always strangle them," Elaine said munching.

"Something more subtle."

"So poison."

"I'm listening."

Elaine blinked once, then launched into a monologue about various substances with a still only slightly suspicious look. "Generally, a large enough dose of anything will kill a person," she started. "What is best is determined by your time frame, availability, if there's medics around, etcetera. Personally, I'd take radioactive isotopes. Takes a bit longer, but if you do it right it's the most sure-fire way, because there's nothing anyone can do. This is good, by the way," she added, motioning at the cake.

Skye smiled. Coming from Elaine Bray, 'good' was high praise. "Let's assume there's a very short time frame. And whatever you use has to pass through a metal detector. And medics are close by."

"Okay, so no radioactive isotopes." She sounded slightly disappointed. "And as untraceable as possible I guess?"

"Correct."

"Liquid, solid or gas? Also, injection or ingestion?" She paused, looked down at the cake, then back up at Skye. "Wait. Are you trying to kill me?"

"No," the Danish agent smiled. "Not you."

"Good." Unfazed, Elaine continued munching vanilla cream. "Well, ingestion always takes half an hour at least, so that's a no. For injection you could always use the infamous air needle, it's nicely untraceable, but might be detected in time, assuming there's gonna be an autopsy."

"There will be."

"There you go. Another problem is that the needle can't pass through the metal detector. And if you don't want to leave puncture marks you have to be creative."

"Creative how?"

Elaine shrugged. "There are enough ways. The key to killing someone is always brain damage. Either directly or indirectly. The quickest indirect methods are by proxy through heart activity or breathing, but thanks to modern medicine, if it's discovered soon enough, you can keep someone alive long enough for anything to wear off and then you're screwed."

"And directly?" Skye asked.

At first Elaine smiled conspiratorially, but then she frowned. "You realise you can't just buy the stuff you seem to be after at every corner drug store?"

"That's exactly why I'm talking to you."

Elaine decided she had humoured her long enough. "I think we can screw the 'hypothetically' by now. Who are we talking about?"


	2. Chapter 2

Ilsa Faust found the situation slightly surreal, sitting in the village café across from Skye Holt, who had ordered coffee for both of them in flawless, if slightly southern-sounding French, right down to brief small-talk with the owner who had left their table smiling and would not disturb them.

Holt had not taken her coat off, and Ilsa automatically looked for concealed weapons. So far she hadn't spotted any.

"To be honest, I was hoping to talk to you at the funeral," Skye said, skipping small-talk entirely.

Ilsa took a reflective sip of coffee. "I don't belong to your agency. Hunley was one of your own. It wasn't my place."

A smile briefly flickered across the other woman's face, as if she was about to disagree, but then she nodded. "I have a proposition for you. Hear me out before you say anything."

Ilsa sat motionless, taking care not to show her surprise. Of all the unexpected things to happen, Skye Holt showing up was at least in the top ten. Was she about to recruit her? No way. Had something happened? With Ethan? To Ethan?

"There is something I have to do that I believe is in your interest as well." Holt's words sounded carefully prepared and chosen. "If you say no I will walk away and this conversation never happened. I can do it without you, but I could use your help."

"Just so I understand you correctly," she finally felt the need to interrupt, "you want my help with a mission."

"Yes," Skye replied simply.

"The last time you saw me I was leaving King's Cross with Ethan, thinking I had betrayed the whole of your team."

Skye got unexpectedly serious. "That's in the past. You did what you had to do. We all did." She took a sip of coffee, then met Ilsa's eyes. "I know about what happened in Kashmir."

Ilsa didn't bother to hide her suspicious glance.

"Benji told me everything," she elaborated. "You saved his life. If anything, we're even."

Ilsa allowed herself half a smile. "What is this proposition about?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Will. Did you sleep in the office again?" Elaine asked pointedly when the chief analyst joined them at their usual table. No one was sure how it had started – probably with Ethan being around so much due to his sustained injuries, and they had to take turns keeping an eye on him so that he wouldn't do anything stupid. In any case, over the past weeks the team tended to meet in the cafeteria quite frequently, for whatever meal it was time for in their strange schedules.

"Office, yes. Sleep, not so much."

Skye smiled compassionately. "Sorry, you just missed the last cake."

"I'm not sorry," Elaine said, swallowing the last strawberry.

The Dane slowly pushed the cup of coffee over the table that was already waiting for Brandt.

"Dakar or Brisbane?" Elaine asked.

"Madrid actually. Came up last night and hasn't shut up since."

She watched him slurp his coffee as if it was the last cup on earth. "What's in Madrid?"

"It's probably a milk run, but I need a reconnaissance team there and I don't have one."

Elaine shrugged. "I don't have anything to do."

"This is something for trainees. Bit below your standards."

"But we don't have available trainees. I could take Skye?" She turned to the other woman.

"Sure," she said.

For a second Brandt looked at her like this was too good to be true. "Well, if you're sure - I can have you flown out tonight."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Benji was running. Sweat was making its way across his forehead, but his breathing was controlled. He had passed two miles on the treadmill a while ago, by now he didn't bother looking at the display anymore. The distance didn't matter, what was important was getting as tired as humanly possible, so that he would fall asleep – and not dream about Solomon Lane slowly suffocating him. Ever since he had come home, the nightmares were back – sometimes all the way back to the explosive vest back in London. And Lane's voice was always there. If it wasn't for Skye he wouldn't sleep at all. Every time he woke up, sweating and shaking with the remnants of the nightmare, she was there. Held him. Calmed him down. Stayed up with him to watch _Firefly_ if it got really bad. He didn't know what he'd do without her. And it would get better eventually. He knew that. He just wasn't quite there yet. Exercising helped.

"Found you," a playful voice said behind him. He turned and saw Skye smile at him as she walked over.

Benji slowed down, stopped, and grabbed his towel to dry the sweat on his face. "Heya," he greeted his girlfriend, then reached for his water bottle. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was.

Skye didn't waste any time. "I have to leave for an assignment."

Benji's heart sank a bit. "Tonight?" he asked.

She nodded. She knew exactly what was on his mind. Ignoring his sweatiness, she pulled him off the treadmill and drew him into a hug. "You're gonna be okay, skat," she whispered and smiled at him. "I know you will."

"Mh," he agreed vaguely as she let go of him. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"I can't really say. I have to find someone and I don't know how difficult it's gonna be. A week? Two weeks tops. I hope."

Benji nodded. "Be careful."

"As always." Skye smiled confidently. Then she took hold of his collar and tugged it until his lips were within reach. The kiss felt good. So good that Benji really didn't want to let her leave. "It's gonna be okay," she whispered. "I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

"I can't," Ilsa said, shaking her head. "I have enough of unsanctioned business. It's too much of a risk."

"I understand that," Skye said.

The other woman hesitated, then made a decision. "I can give you the layout of the holding tract and what I know about their security. You'll have to do the rest on your own."

Skye held her glance for a few seconds. It was right there in her blue eyes. _I'm not gonna stop you._ Skye nodded once. "I appreciate your help."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Codename Needledrop?" Elaine asked sceptically.

"Too nostalgic?"

"Why needle?"

"I thought there would be needles involved," Skye admitted.

"Amateur," Elaine said, and fixed the last strands of Skye's hair.

Skye grinned. "That's why I came to you."

"That should do," the other agent said and stepped back. She picked up the scanner from the table and switched it on. "Stand still."

She slowly walked around Skye, scanning her from all angles. The Dane waited patiently, listening to the soft hum, anticipating the fatal beeping noise any moment. It did not come. Skye looked at her fellow agent, eyebrows raised, awaiting confirmation.

Finally, Elaine looked up from the display. "Yup," she said. "That's gonna pass through a metal detector."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"And you are?" Dr. Skeffington asked gruffly.

"Charlotte Harris," the woman said.

He looked her up and down, her simple blue shirt over practical dark trousers with lots of pockets and solid shoes. She was wearing glasses; her unspectacular brown hair was in a low ponytail.

"I'm a paramedic," she elaborated under the sceptical glance of MI6's Chief Medical. "I was specially assigned for a..." She struggled to remember the word. "I was told not to say prisoner, but..."

Skeffington scratched the stubble on his chin. She looked so civilian that it hurt. Her deep-set London accent probably went well enough with elderly ladies over at St. Thomas, he could picture it in his head, but there was nothing for her here.

"I have the paperwork here," she said when he still didn't respond, and opened the folder she had been carrying under her arm. "Signed by Chief Sudbury herself." She flicked through the pages and trailed one index finger over the lines to find a specific part. "Assigned for Solomon Lane? I don't know. Someone high up seems to be afraid of inside jobs."

Skeffington sighed when he heard how she said that name. Clearly she had no idea who she was supposed to treat in case of emergency. So the CIA had screwed up so bad in their security checks that MI6 was hiring innocent citizens now. He kind of envied her. He took the thin folder and flicked through the paper work. "I see. Well, that all seems to be in order. Fine, then. Let me show you around."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Clémentine LaFière's career took off in 2005 when she got the position as a croupière at Casino de Monte Carlo. She started out with roulette, soon moved on to overseeing the poker tables. She was equally excellent and ordinary at her job, but she caught the attention of the wrong people at some point. The scandal of several employees at the same establishment being caught up in illegal gambling also fell in her time with the casino, but Clém was cleared of all suspicion in the subsequently conducted internal investigation of the entire staff. Which is why it was all the more regrettable that, after witnessing her co-workers turn their backs on the law, she ended up in the very same gambling dens herself. Maybe it was because the fabled invitation to the most infamous poker game in town, far-off from casino-regulations, was too intriguing to turn down, and while Clém didn't need the money, she was, after all, young.

But people didn't know what they were in for with LaFière. She took the house more often than not, coming home with monstrous sums of money, and no one could complain about their losses due to the unlicensed nature of the games. She could make people believe their royal flush was worth nothing while she rarely held more than a pair. This earned the nickname _la couchemare_ ,the French word for nightmare with the _le_ deliberately changed into the female form.

Several of the smaller gambling dens got busted by the police in the following weeks. The law seemed to follow in Clém's wake, but never to touch her. Rumours of an affair with a cop started to circulate. Clém wouldn't have any of it. No one caught on at that point yet, they were too mesmerised by the way she played everyone with a lousy hand. There was just something about her – again, Clém caught the attention of the wrong people.

Maxence Durand, doubtlessly not his real name, decided her talents were wasted at the casino and the gambling dens he recruited her for his business: assassination. He had retired from contract-killing more than a decade ago, but quickly got bored among the rich and famous of Monaco. So he decided before he would let his talents go to waste, he would expand – teach and train new assassins. In certain circles Durand's killers made quite a name for themselves, for their talents as well as a quirk Durand had impressed on them: They were exclusively paid in diamonds, no other currency would be taken.

Clémentine accepted this invitation as well. Four weeks later, Maxence Durand was arrested, along with all of his trainees unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity at the time.

It turned out that LaFière had tipped off the police about everything over the course of several months. Casino de Monte Carlo obviously had to fire her because of her affiliation with unlicensed poker games. They were so embarrassed about their own failure to notice an employee tampering with illegal gambling despite the investigation that they invoked a life-long casino exclusion for LaFière.

When it turned out that she had gone missing after all of this, with potentially valuable intel and large sums of her winnings still nowhere to be found, Interpol got involved, making the ban worldwide as their search for Clém continued.

She resurfaced only once in Las Vegas, apparently unaware of the ban's expansion, but she managed to get away then as well and had not been seen since.

When no facial recognition software ever found her, which should have been impossible, and considering the company she liked to keep, the unofficial consensus was that Clémentine LaFière was probably dead.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Skye exited the tube at Vauxhall. She circumvented the few tourists coming her way across the bridge. She pulled her jacket tighter when the wind hit her full on once she left the safety of the surrounding buildings. On passing SIS headquarters - a modern, roughly pyramid-shaped building with lots of glass one could not see through from the outside - she noted the locations of security cameras, but never stopped walking until she was halfway across the bridge. The traffic behind her seemed to fade out a little. She looked at the Thames. It was a clear day, and she could see all the way up to the London Eye, where the river made a bend and went on towards Tower Bridge. For a moment too long, Skye looked at the water, long enough for her mind to replay what had happened further downstream two years ago. _This is the end, Miss Holt._ Her hands curled into fists in her jacket pockets. Benji had already gone through enough. It was time to give him peace of mind, whatever it took.

Skye turned her back on MI6 and had just resumed walking when her phone rang. The number was blocked. The agent took the call and was surprised when she heard an unexpected voice.

"How did you get this number?" she asked, intrigued.

"You looked away when you paid for the coffee. Your phone was on the table," Agent Faust answered.

Skye smiled. "What do you want?"

There was a brief pause. "I'm in London."


	4. Chapter 4

"So what do you think about Lane?" Dr. Skeffington asked out of the blue.

Harris whirled around. He had entered the small break room without making his presence known, had simply spoken, and she'd had her back to him. To her credit, she didn't acknowledge her surprise and simply answered. "I don't know. I'm not sure what to make of him," she said, closed the cabinet she had been checking for its contents and took a seat.

"It's fine, you can speak freely." Skeffington opened the small fridge and took out a can of coke. "Do you want anything?"

"Is there any Sprite?"

"Um..." he scanned the fridge. "Yes, actually. Lucky you, that's the last one." He threw Harris the can, which she caught effortlessly in mid-air. He sat down at the table, facing her.

The woman adjusted her glasses. "What did you mean just then? About speaking freely?"

"I don't know," the doctor said and took a sip from his coke. "Personally, there's something about him that just makes my blood run cold."

Harris looked relieved. "And I thought it was just me not being used to... well, all this." She motioned around her.

The doctor grinned. "Doesn't happen every day that MI6 comes knocking at your door, does it?"

"Not really," she said and blushed a little when she looked away. Abruptly she looked into his eyes again. "Do you know what he's done? Lane, I mean. To end up here."

Skeffington sighed. "Believe me, Miss Harris-"

"Charlotte. Please," she interrupted him.

"Charlotte." He put on an exhausted smile. "I don't think you'd want to know."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Why do they keep him in there?" Skye asked.

This time Ilsa had paid for coffee. They had taken it to go and made their way to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, where they found a bench secluded enough for their taste. When the dark-haired woman didn't reply at once, Skye filled the silence to try and make her feel at ease.

"We need to get you an alibi," Skye stated. "The best alibi there is."

"I know that." For a moment they were quiet after all, both lost in thought about the sheer scale of what they were planning to do. The possible repercussions. Ilsa watched the light catch in the silvery surface of the sealed soda can between them. "So," she asked casually after the silence had stretched too long, "how is everyone?"

"They're doing okay," Skye said.

The British agent knew at once she was holding back on something. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help it. "And Ethan?"

Skye chuckled. "Ethan haggled with the doctors for so long that they got sick of him and threw him out early. He's fine, he even was there when they handed over Lane to you guys."

Ilsa smiled. It sounded like he was back on his feet. Maybe she should have come along to Washington after all. She pushed the thought away and resumed their previous topic. "MI6 wanted me to kill Lane because they thought there was no way to get him back alive," she explained patiently. "But when the CIA offered them a way out of that dilemma they decided to lock him up in a very secure location instead."

"At the heart of MI6." Skye nodded thoughtfully and looked at her coffee.

"No one knows about the holding facilities inside. This time they want to stay in control no matter what." She paused. "Are you sure about this?" Ilsa couldn't help asking. "I can't help you, other than the bit of paperwork and dropping off your equipment, and your closest back-up is in Madrid. This might sound strange, coming from me, but I'm not sure if it's worth the risk."

The blond woman sighed. The motion went through her torso in a way that made it obvious to Faust that she had just made a decision. "Benji isn't well," Skye said. "It was bad two years ago, after London, but that got better quickly. But now all of that is coming back with Kashmir on top, and I wasn't even there to help you."

She understood. "This is for him."

"In a way, it's for all of us."

"Can I ask you something?"

Skye nodded for her to go ahead.

Ilsa hesitated. It was there in her head, ready to be spoken. How do you do it? Have a relationship in all this chaos? What is it like? You're right, you weren't there there during the plutonium mission, everything you know comes from from Benji. What is it like to be able to trust someone like that, to know for certain someone tells you the truth? And to go through hell based on that knowledge?

"Are you gonna tell him about this?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"So what's your plan?" Ilsa asked, half-expecting a _We'll figure it out_ Hunt-style.

Instead, Skye handed her a black and white picture. It showed a young woman in a black dress behind a gambling table. Probably a screenshot taken from security camera footage, judging from the angle.

"Who is she?" Ilsa asked curiously

Skye waited.

The other woman looked back at the picture. And back up at Skye. "It's you," she said mildly surprised.

"It's me ten years ago, undercover in Monte Carlo as Clémentine LaFière. I posed as a croupière. My mission was to infiltrate a ring of illegal gamblers with an assassination business on the side. The operation is long over, but the alias is still on Interpol's Most Wanted List. No one knows Clém's an agent, because no agency will back her – since IMF doesn't do official."

Agent Holt watched Ilsa's face as she put the rest together herself. " _That_ is your plan?" she commented wide-eyed.

Skye nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Bienvenue, monsieurs,"_ the peroxide-blond woman said with a dazzling smile when the door opened. The cellar was unremarkable, clearly still in the process of being set-up, but several tables covered in dark felt and velvet were already set up.

"Madamoiselle LaFière?" the taller of the two men asked in accented French.

" _La seule et l'unique,"_ she answered, and motioned at the game table. _"Vouz êtes les premieres."_ She was shuffling playing cards in her hands with elegant flowing motions, equally pretentious and mesmerising. Her hair was piled up in a knot on top of her head.

The men exchanged a glance, then the other one spoke up. "My name is Botega, this is my colleague Agent Lawrence of the Secret Intelligence Service. We received a tip that you, Miss LaFière, plan to set up shop here in London." He glanced over at the roulette table. "We're not entirely okay with that, and also Interpol still wants a word with you."

The woman stopped shuffling, and when the nose of cards flapping on top of each other ceased it got eerily quiet for a few seconds.

" _Merde."_

In a desperate move she threw the deck into the agents' faces, playing cards sailed through the air, and she bolted for the back-door. Clém did not get very far. Lawrence was already in front of her and blocked her exit, leaving Botega enough time to get the gun out of his holster and get a steady aim. He secured her against the wall in a police grip in a matter of seconds.

" _Laissez-moi partir!"_ the woman screeched at an impressive volume. _"Vous êtes les galeux! Les galeux!"_ She lashed out at him and her elbow made contact with his chin. His teeth smashed into their upper jaw counterparts.

"I'm gonna need you to calm down," Botega said, slammed her into the wall again with minimum care to be gentle and started patting her down.

"Not sure where you would wanna hide anything in there," Lawrence said and didn't bother to hide his grin at the sight of her outfit. A skintight and slightly see-through red blouse over equally tight, vertically striped black and white trousers that flared out below her knees like relics from the seventies.

"We know who you are. We also know that you understand every word we're saying. You're gonna come with us," he said and slapped the handcuffs on behind her back.

" _C'est une erreur, c'est inacceptable,"_ she continued in rapid-fire French. _"Vous verrez, tout ce que vous penser savoir, tout ce qu'on vous a dit, tout_ _ç_ _a n'est qu'on mensonge!"_

"Lies, huh?" Lawrence repeated, pushing her forwards up the stairs of the abandoned apartment block. Outside, several men and women in bulletproof vests stood behind open car doors, guns at the ready.

Botega produced a radio out of his jacket pocket. "This is Team One, you can stand down, I say again, you're clear to stand down."

Clém looked up at the surrounding rooftops and saw silhouettes lowering sniper rifles.

"Well, feel free to correct us," Lawrence continued and pushed her onto the backseat of their car. "You'll have a lot of time to talk where we're going. And then again once Interpol picks you up."

" _Je ne vous parlarai rien,_ " she spat the last word. _"Rien du tout."_

"Suit yourself." He slammed her car door shut and climbed onto the driver's seat. Botega put his seatbelt on next to him, all around cars were started to drive ahead, others got ready to secure the rear.

"Ready to go," Botega said when Lawrence took his time to start the engine.

Lawrence's eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, at their captive.

Suddenly Clémentine LaFiére smiled. It was such a stark contrast to her screaming from a minute ago that he involuntarily shivered.

" _Rien ne va plus_."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"They called her _la couchemare,_ did you know that?" Chief Sangeet Sudbury mused. "The Nightmaress. For ten years she's been on every wanted list, but nothing ever showed up, except for that failed arrest in Las Vegas in '07. A lot of people thought she was long dead, but to tell you the truth, when I looked at the case I immediately felt LaFière was just too smart for them. I suppose she's met her match." The chief abandoned the impressive view of the Thames out of her office window to turn around and smile at Agent Ilsa Faust, which caused soft wrinkles to appear in the brown skin around her dark eyes.

"I only found the intel, ma'am. I didn't actually find her," the agent replied. No false modesty, just stating a fact. Sudbury liked her.

"You've been doing good work, Agent Faust. The undercover-work under former Chief Atlee – we don't need to talk about that. Your part in the return of Lane. Now you're the first to find intel on LaFière in a decade. I want you to know that I see it as a great honour to count you among my staff."

"Thank you, Chief Sudbury." Ilsa shoved her hands into her coat pockets. A bad habit.

"Ten years she was on the run... it's unbelievable."

Faust felt cold tin with her right hand. The slightest touch of a bad conscience overcame her. She liked and respected the new chief. Sudbury was fair and good at her job. Still, it only lasted a second. "Maybe she felt too safe and that's why she slipped."

"Probably," the half-Indian woman mused. "Anyway. The reason I called you here is that I would like to have you present in a meeting tomorrow."

Her hands finally left her pockets. "A meeting, ma'am?"

"A meeting with the Prime Minister and myself, discussing national security."

Ilsa didn't know what to say for a second. "I'd be honoured, ma'am."

Sudbury smiled again. "I will see you tomorrow evening. In Downing Street."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Steps drew nearer fast, tasteful high heels reverberating with authority, urgency and determination.

The woman greeted the guard on duty with a nod, then knocked twice in short succession.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked upon opening the door.

Lawrence and Botega turned around half-heartedly to have a look at the newcomer.

"Not really," Botega said. "She was serious when she said she won't tell us anything. Apparently."

"Well, we got word from Lyon. Unfortunately Interpol got delayed. It's gonna take until tomorrow until they can send someone over." She looked at Clémentine. "So if you have anything we should know, out with it until tonight."

Lawrence grinned. "The lady still sticks to French. The few things she's said at least."

"Oh, come on, she understands every word," Ilsa Faust said. "Good luck with it."

Clém reached into her hair, felt for the tiny plastic container.

Tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

"Chief Sudbury," the Prime Minister said as soon as he entered the room.

"Sir," the woman replied curtly, but returned the warm handshake.

"And Agent Faust," he turned to the other woman. "It really is my pleasure to have you here. Would you like a drink?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Something hissed. Not like a snake, but much softer and quieter. Just on the verge of making you wonder whether or not you can actually hear it. But he was quite certain of it – and then it stopped.

Solomon Lane was standing in the middle of his small holding room, listening intently. He looked up at the grey strip that was his air vent. Was that it? He stepped closer, onto his narrow bed and sniffed, then recoiled immediately when the air stung on the inside of his nose. Something had glinted inside, like matte metal, but there was no time for that. He jumped back down, tried to get low, inhaled deeply, coughed, and for a moment he felt better before the invisible cloud descended on him. He smelled chlorine burning in his nose. His eyes were tearing up. The pain wasn't severe, but he felt it working its way into his mucose membranes.

He stumbled to the door and banged on it with all his strength.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"My point is that since the incident with my wife two years ago I feel like you can't be overcautious what concerns security."

"Which incident, sir?" Faust asked.

Sudbury replied first. "She was attacked the night Solomon Lane was first apprehended. She was found and safely returned after just a few hours."

"By the late Alan Hunley, as a matter of fact. Regrettable business that, very regrettable..."

"In every way, sir," Faust said.

The Prime Minister let a second pass, then he continued, "Fortunately nothing happened to my wife, apart from the shock. But the security breach remains."

"We've taken additional steps since then," Sudbury added.

"For which I'm very grateful. My staff and I have drafted a few ideas about how to make the public get that same sense of security. I would like to hear your opinions..."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"It's probably some minor irritation," Harris said. "Did you have a cold recently?"

The guard, who had gotten hold of the medic after the inmate's frantic knocking, bit back a grin. Lane didn't reply, just narrowed his face into a bitter mask. The smell of chlorine had dissipated in the few minutes it took her to get to his holding cell.

"Maybe it's the beginning of a flu. Happens to the best of us," she said drily. "I'm gonna give you some eye drops, that should do the trick for now. If you would be so kind to tilt your head back."

There was something about her voice he didn't like. On a different level than he hated everyone else. But his vision was still blurry and the burning didn't cease, so he leaned back and tried not to flinch when she held his eyelid open. He felt her inhuman rubber gloves on his temple.

The drop of clear liquid from the small plastic phial hit his pupil. First left, then right in quick succession.

Lane blinked, and for a moment he felt fine again. The burning sensation had stopped.

Then he felt it. What had been so soothing at first turned out to have been nothing but momentary numbness. His eyeballs felt as if they were on fire, sending that same excruciating impulse through his entire body, burning out every neural pathway. Lane squeezed his eyes shut after a last intake of blinding light. He shifted in his seat, tried to curl up, to sink his head into his lap – but the danger came from within, and his limbs wouldn't listen to him anymore. In an uncoordinated motion, his arms flared out and then collapsed down his sides.

Deep down, he already knew it was too late. Solomon Lane screamed.

"He's having a seizure," Harris said.

The guard at the door found she looked flustered, which didn't contribute to calming his own nerves.

"It could be a neurological event or an apoplectic insult, get me Skeffington, stat!"

"Yeah, yeah," he hurried to say and rushed down the corridor.

And then, as soon as the guard had left them alone, Lane realised his mistake when he heard the whisper close to his ear. The pleasant London accent had given way to something sharper, very clear and heavy on the S. This time Lane recognised it instantly, even though this was the first time they were directly face to face. He wanted to hit her, let her experience the pain he felt, tried to lash out, but he had no control over his body anymore, irreversible pain was all there was, ruled by the white-hot burning in his head.

"Remember, Lane," the woman said, deadly quiet. "The greater the suffering..."

He couldn't see anymore, but his hearing was perfect despite the static wheeze his screams had succumbed to.

"...the greater the peace," she finished.

This was how it was going to end - in the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross with a couple of eye drops.

Peace could not possibly be this great.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

The cells in the holding tract weren't cells in the classical sense, since this was an administrative building that officially had no business holding suspects when the police might as well do it. They looked almost homey. Like spartan bedrooms of people with no private life. In a way that was accurate.

There weren't many and at no point had every single one been in use at the same time, but tonight the guard on duty saw something that had never happened before.

One of the doors was open. Not just unlocked, but standing a crack ajar. As far as he knew the inmate of that one had just been brought in last night, the fairly cute French girl, or not French, but close, one of those small ones at the coast – none of that mattered right now.

He stepped closer, felt for the gun at his hip, unsure if it was too soon to call for back-up. He carefully nudged the door open all the way.

The cell was empty.


	7. Chapter 7

"What the hell is going on, Charlotte?" Dr. Skeffington said first thing he entered the holding cell, followed by three emergency medical technicians.

"He's been seizing for the past four minutes," she answered quickly as two of the EMTs took over trying to hold Lane steady. "At first tonic spasms, now more relaxed, breathing is regular, pulse is elevated, mydriactic pupils."

The doctor looked at the patient, held in place by constant trembling. "What happened, what did you do?"

"He complained about sore eyes, I just gave him some eye drops. Sodium chloride, standard." She sounded defensive.

"Stand back," Skeffington instructed, and Harris listened immediately. The doctor leaned in, saw white foam at the corner of Lane's mouth. The tremors were still going, catapulting Lane upwards every couple of seconds only to let him slump back again immediately. Skeffington shone his penlight into Lane's eyes. They were black. His pupils were so wide that there was barely a trace of pale blue anymore. It looked so unnatural that it was downright frightening. There was no reaction to the light either.

Then the trembling stopped abruptly.

The EMT reacted at once. He set up the monitor he'd been carrying and quickly connected the electrodes to Lane's chest.

"We'll intubate," Skeffington said with a glance at the flat line representing Lane's currently non-existant heartbeat. "I need an IV with adrenaline and sodiumbicarbonate."

Things happened quickly, Skeffington and his team functioned like clockwork. But after several minutes of CPR, the doctor had to admit that it was pointless.

A single blood-red tear made its way across Lane's face from the corner of his right eye, still staring vacantly with huge black pupils.

Skeffington looked up at his EMT. He saw something like repressed shock, probably a mirror image of his own expression. He looked back at the monitor, still a steady flat line. The Chief Medical swallowed, got a grip on himself and checked his watch. "Time of death: 10:04 PM."

No one had noticed that Charlotte Harris was gone.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"These are commendable goals, Prime Minister," Chief Sudbury said.

"With the right resources, I think most of this could be achieved within two years," Faust agreed, nodding at the paperwork in front of her.

"So you would say it's achievable?" he made sure.

"Definitely," Faust said before Sudbury could reply. She quickly looked at her superiour, but the other woman smiled, unaware of any faux-pas.

"The public is going to love it," Sudbury said. A phone started ringing. "You'll excuse me. If someone calls on this number, it's bound to be important."

"Of course," the Prime Minister said.

"Sudbury," she answered the call. Despite her dark complexion, she seemed to pale a little. "I understand. I'll be there shortly." She ended the call and stood up. "I'm sorry, but we're going to have to finish this some other time. Agent Faust, you're with me. LaFière escaped."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Charlotte Harris walked along Embankment. She was already past Lambeth Bridge when she took off the glasses and the wig and threw both into a rubbish bin, along with a small empty plastic phial, a crushed soda can that smelled faintly of chlorine and a miniature charge. She never stopped walking. When she was a couple of metres away, she heard the device detonate with a hollow sound. The fire was contained by the metal bin, the smell of burning synthetic hair would dissipate soon among smog and salty river-air.

She took a right, away from the river. The car was parked not far off from the Waterloo tube station. Only once she was out of the city and heading on the motorway before the road blocks would go up, she made the call.

"Are you out?" Elaine asked.

"Already on the road, twenty minutes and I'm at the plane."

There was something like a sigh at the other end, possibly of relief.

"The weather is good, so I'll be landing in about three hours."

"I'll pick you up outside the city."

"I'll see you there."

"Wait," Elaine said when she realised she was about to hang up. "How'd it go?"

Skye Holt allowed herself a smile as she accelerated. "Mission accomplished."


	8. Chapter 8

"It was hot." Elaine shrugged and tore off a chunk of her sandwich.

"Is that all?"

Elaine started to elaborate, but the sentence got lost in the grilled cheese. Skye chuckled quietly.

"Ethan, stop asking about other people's missions," Luther said strictly. "You're embarrassing yourself."

Hunt just sighed.

Benji laughed. "Give it another week. Lee has to clear you for field work at some point."

"Look whose personal coffee machine ran out of beans again," Luther grinned when Brandt joined them.

"How's Dakar?"

"Ethan," Luther warned.

The analyst sat down at their cafeteria table without any greeting. He slumped into the chair with a blank expression, looking thoroughly finished.

Nobody said anything. Everyone immediately felt the atmosphere shift to serious. Something had happened.

Luther broke the silence. "Who died?"

"Solomon Lane," Brandt said simply.

Benji's fork met the plate with a clang. "Really?"

Ethan suddenly looked pale. "Ilsa?" he just asked, a trace of worry in his voice that he couldn't conceal despite his efforts.

Brandt sighed while he spoke. "Ilsa Faust was actually in a conference with Chief Sudbury of MI6 at the time."

Ethan relaxed visibly. "Good."

Benji spoke up again. "Who did it then?"

"They don't know what happened." It was clear from his tone of voice that Brandt wasn't sure how to feel about this. "But according to the preliminary autopsy report his brain had – disintegrated. Completely. And they don't know how."

Everyone at the table was a bit stunned.

"Disintegrated?" Benji repeated.

"That sounds kinda cool," Elaine said, who seemed to take the news pretty well.

"He's really dead?" Benji asked again. Under the table he felt for Skye's hand. She squeezed it lightly.

Brandt nodded. "Yes."

"Can't say I blame them," Ethan said. "Whoever it was." Somehow the possibility that Lane had died of natural causes didn't seem to be on the table. Also a disintegrated brain wasn't exactly and everyday occurrence.

"A lot of people seem to be thinking the same," Brandt went on. He still sounded like he technically wanted to be happy about the news but couldn't give in to that. "No one seems to be awfully concerned about an investigation so far."

"You mean they're not conducting one?" Skye asked astonished.

"Officially, they are. They looked into their medical staff because the leading physician made up a story about a new paramedic that no one but him saw."

"Mh," Luther said. "Sounds like the case is closed."

"They can't prove anything so far. Seems to me like Sudbury is just taking the necessary steps so that she won't lose face. But no one is very upset."

"I know I'm not," Benji said, and picked up his fork.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Three more things, and Brandt would be done for today. Not that he was ever done, technically speaking, but now wasn't the time for hair-splitting.

Signing off a mission report - that was dealt with quickly. Authorising a back-up request for the ongoing operation in Dakar... and a high-clearance memo that had ended up on his desk for the lack of secretary. Brandt skimmed over it and wondered if this was worth getting one last cup of coffee today, dimly aware that his relationship with caffeine had drifted into the unhealthy at some point. It was an automated report that came through when someone on a watchlist got arrested, this one from British Intelligence. Brandt frowned. The name of the apprehended sparked something at the back of his head, but even with his exceptional memory he couldn't quite grasp it. Something about a mission, but that must have been a long time ago, before his days as an analyst. He leaned back and flipped the page of the print-out – and when he saw the picture attached to the report every desire for coffee was forgotten.

Brandt didn't waste any time. He checked the time and date of the arrest, then fired up his computer again to check international intelligence reports.

His worst fears were confirmed. Clémentine LaFière, the alias handed out to Skye Holt by the Impossible Mission Force in 2005, had lived up to her name and escaped MI6 five days ago after resurfacing for the first time in years.

"Shit..." the analyst murmured.

Elaine had said Skye had been with her, meaning at the very least she had given her a false alibi, making her an accomplice. Most likely there was more. Disintegrated brain, Jesus Christ, it seemed almost too logical that Elaine had a hand in this. If this ever came out, not only Holt would be on the line for murder, they would get Bray for meddling in unsanctioned missions as well, that much was certain. Disavowed, prison, the whole shebang.

Brandt waited two seconds, surprised by his own decision. Waited to see if he would change his mind. It didn't happen.

He reached to the drawer cabinet to his right, opened the third one from the top, scanned his thumb print and typed in the eight-digit code. The compartment slid open, and he flicked through the thin folder until he found the sheet with the passwords that gave him access – in case of emergencies. In case of extreme security breaches. In case someone needed to disappear.

No one had ever been able to trace Clémentine LaFière over facial recognition, so that Skye wouldn't get into trouble during the time when she wasn't posing as _la couchemare_.

As of tonight, no one would be able to find her, period, because she had never existed in the first place.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"So how was Madrid?"

"What do you mean?" Elaine asked. She somewhat-folded her jacket and threw it into the locker in her office.

Brandt loosened his tie. "You know. Your mission. With Skye."

"The report's been on your desk since this morning."

"Can't I just ask?" He started unbuttoning his his shirt.

"William," Elaine said pointedly. "Is there a problem with my report?"

"Not with your report, no," he replied.

"Good," Elaine said and moved closer. "Can we get on with this now?"

Brandt looked into her eyes, frowning for a long time. She held his gaze mercilessly. Finally he sighed, and took off his shirt.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"If you want to we can watch another episode before we sleep," Skye suggested from the bathroom. When no answer came forward, she frowned. Slowly she went over to the bedroom. "Benji?"

Benji didn't answer. He was asleep.

A smile slowly made its way over Skye's face. She turned off the light, drew the blanket over him, and slipped in on her side of the bed. Careful not to wake him she got closer, just enough to feel him breathing. Slow and deeply relaxed.

"Good night, handsome," she whispered, then closed her eyes herself.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

He had been trying to wait for the right moment, but it just wouldn't come. So he figured breakfast was just as good as anything.

"I have to tell you something," Benji said and put the tea mugs between them. He took a deep breath. "When you had been gone a couple of days I couldn't sleep. I... I had nightmares again, it was... bad - and at some point I just gave up. But I really missed you and then I had a weak moment..."

Part of Skye immediately became apprehensive. "What did you do?"

Benji knew it sucked, so he didn't even try to make excuses. "I ran a search on you."

"You did what?" Her voice remained calm, but something accompanied the words that made Benji sound defensive.

"I just wanted to know where you are. That you were safe."

"You could have just asked Brandt where I was."

"It was the middle of the night. And also that's not my point."

Skye looked at the floor, already knew what was about to come.

"CCTV picked you up in London. I know you were there. At the time."

She wouldn't deny it. Not to Benji. She met his eyes. "I was going to tell you. I just wanted to wait a little to see how you would react," she said quietly. "Let it settle in."

Benji looked at the floor and nodded. "I wiped the footage."

Skye's lips parted, but she didn't say anything. There was gratitude she didn't know how to voice in her eyes, a bit of surprise too, immediately replaced by the knowledge that she could rely on him no matter what.

"Why did you do it, love?"

"You really have to ask?" she retorted softly.

He shook his head. "You could have gotten caught..."

"But I didn't get caught."

"Elaine knows?"

Skye nodded. "Most of it."

"It was still unnecessary danger," he said quietly. "Of your career _and_ your life."

"You know why I did it?" She waited until he looked at her. "For peace of mind. We always would have been aware of the possibility that he could escape. That there was someone left in MI6 to help him. There would have been that last lingering doubt. Now we can be sure. That's really all it is."

They sat in silence for a little.

"Are you... are you mad?" she asked carefully. It put her off that he was so quiet.

Benji looked like he had to think about this. Then he said, "No. I just – I'm waiting to feel bad and it just doesn't happen."

"Why would you feel bad?"

"Because I don't wanna be happy about another human being dying. What would that say about me."

Skye looked at him for a long time and sighed eventually. "Sometimes I think you're too good for this job."

He smiled, then it suddenly broadened into a grin. "I don't know about that. I slept like a baby last night."

* * *

 _Author's Note: As always, thank you so much for reading my story. Your reviews were my daily highlight, and I'm for sure gonna miss that until my next story is ready - which could take a while I'm afraid. But what can I say. You're welcome. I don't know about you, but I needed this._

 _#Skylsa, anyone?_


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